The Shadow of Her Smile
by pbw
Summary: Henriette Holmes is a force all to her own. Her sons love her dearly, but at what cost to their relationship with her?


1. Nothing belongs to me.

2. Nothing is Brit-picked.

3. Nothing is beta-read.

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**The Cold of Her Eyes**

_In Which Henriette decides to meet James._

Henriette Holmes was only 44 years old when her husband of nearly 20 years died. Her beauty was well-known in the countryside and London and caused much of Cadman Holmes' irrational jealousy and distress. But at 44 years of age, Henriette was slowly beginning to show her age with her inky-colored hair streaked with silver; her moonstone colored eyes lined with crow's feet and the set of her mouth in a perpetual frown. It didn't matter though, to her sons, Henriette was still the most beautiful woman they had ever seen.

After the policemen left the Holmes Manor, Henriette breathed a quiet sigh of relief, sagging against the doorframe with a hand against her closed eyes. Since marrying devastatingly stunning Cadman Holmes, Henriette had not one minute of time to herself, being made to trail after her husband and fulfill every whim the odious man had. Now, she was free from his constant attention...and abuse. Henriette smiled on the inside, the first real genuine smile in a long time. It lit her from the inside out and warmed Henriette to her toes. She sighed, still fighting the smile, and letting her shoulder slump a little.

Movement caught her eyes and as she turned her head, she caught her three sons looking directly at her: Mycroft, dark russet hair perfectly coiffed, was the the oldest and most outgoing, was pensive, instinctively knowing that he was the "Man of the House;" Sherlock, her odd, shining middle son, was peering at her - no doubt deducing her relief and Quennel, her third and most sensitive son had tears in his emerald-like eyes. They were her dearest and most precious ones. She almost smiled at them, glad to be free but Henriette pushed down her relief.

There was still the matter of her sons and their futures to deal with and with that Henriette straightened her shoulders and walked towards her children.

"Come," she said to her sons, mildly surprised that her voice didn't shake, "into the living room. There is something I must tell you." It was of no use being gentle with her sons. _Cadman certainly wasn't, _Henriette thought bitterly. "Sit down," she said as her sons sat on the overstuffed sofa gingerly. "There has been an incident with your Father," she began. Predictably, Quennel's eyes again filled with tears. "Mycroft and I will need to go to the police station to identify the body."

This brought gasps from Sherlock and Mycroft and quiet sobs from Quennel. She hushed them all with a stern look. Sherlock visibly gulped and said nothing while Quennel shut his mouth tightly into a thin straight line, forcing himself not to make a sound. Mycroft's eyes turned hard, willing himself not to express any feelings.

Henriette felt a mixture of motherly concern with fatherly pride; concern that her sons couldn't mourn their father properly and pride because they weren't meant to mourn the man. She had endured enough of Cadman's abuse not to have built up some sort of resistance. He was a terrible and cruel man oscillating between constantly mocking her and clinging to her like a lost child. Her sons didn't fare any better; Cadman left them (and her) with bruises that she did her best to cover.

No, Henriette Holmes was not devastated to learn that Cadman Holmes died in a car crash caused by his excessive drinking and his deep seated belief that he was invincible.

_She would be damned, _she thought, _if her sons turned out like Cadman_.

"Come Mycroft, get the other car ready so we can get this over with," Henriette said smoothly, standing up and smoothing her plaid skirt down. "Sherlock, please get yourself and Quennel ready for bed. Quennel, please stop sniveling. We all know how much of a bastard your father was." _And really, if we stop to think about it, we'll all be better off without him,_ she thought.

Nearly twenty years later she was almost right.

Cadman died that day but Henriette took his place amongst her sons.

_She was certainly kinder, in her own way_, Quennel thought placidly, _but in some ways Mummy was just as harsh as Father ever was. _

He sat silently across from his brother, Mycroft, in the Diogenes Club contemplating his current situation. Time passed differently in the Diogenes Club; running swiftly at times only to have it slow to a crawl. He didn't understand it but then again, he didn't quite care. This wasn't his world, all muted colors to match the almost oppressive silence of the Club. Waitstaff drifted by silent as ghosts, carrying trays of drinks. Quennel desperately wished for a shot of whiskey but thought better of it.

His fingers itched for his drawing supplies that he forgot back at Headquarters. Quennel was there as a favor to Sherlock but he wasn't going to go out of his way to enjoy it. He sighed silently and cast his gaze around the room again.

_Oh, yes, Mummy never beat us, but then again, she didn't have to, _he thought idly. _She was also so severe with her praise and love. But oh how we all adore her. We would do anything for our Mummy. _Quennel stifled another sigh, mentally forcing Sherlock to finish up his business so they could be on their way.

Mycroft tapped him on his knee and raised an eyebrow when Quennel looked up.

_Oh, yes, I would rather be anywhere else than here, my dear Big Brother, _he thought as he smiled. But Quennel said nothing, just shaking his head.

Quennel's phone vibrated softly in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the text.

_Bored? - MH_

_Devastatingly so. - QH_

_My apologies. - MH_

_Don't be daft. You know you like keeping us here hostage. - QH_

_I would never. - MH_

_Oh, yes you would. Don't give me that innocent look. - QH_

Mycroft was about to respond when John and Sherlock came out of a private room. Sherlock hauled Quennel to his feet, leaving him little time to rearrange his rumpled clothing. Both men nodded at Mycroft and proceeded to drag the youngest Holmes out of the Diogenes Clubs. Once outside, all three men sighed loudly.

"Oh, thank god," John said quietly.

Quennel and Sherlock almost jumped from the sound of John's voice.

"What?" John asked, he looking at the brothers.

"Sorry, it was a reflex," Quennel said. "It's so oppressive in there. How could he possibly stand it?"

John just shrugged.

"Did you get what you needed from old Colonel Armitage?" Quennel asked as he straightened his black tie and crisp white shirt under his shapeless grey cardigan.

"Oh, yes, I think we have all the pieces we need for Lestrade to finally apprehend the correct criminal this time," Sherlock said offhandedly. He pulled out his mobile and began texting.

"That's good," Quennel said nodding. "So, what was I there for?"

"Distraction," John said without skipping a beat and smiled a little sheepishly.

"I bloody hate you both," Quennel said and threw both of them a stormy look. John laughed at his expression.

"No. No, you don't," Sherlock said and tucked his mobile back in his pocket, looking at them. "Dinner?"

"Starved," Quennel and John said at the same time and began laughing, breaking the tension.

"Idiots, the both of you," Sherlock said and sniffed, a slight hint of a smile on his face.

"With you the more of one," John said affectionately. "Come on, let's see what Angelo has prepared for us tonight."

"Does he still give you free meals?" Quennel said, feeling his stomach rumble.

After saying goodbye to his brother and his partner, Quennel walked leisurely home, enjoying the rare dry spring day. He eyed the landscape in the dying pink light and thought about how he would render them in pencil and ink. _Dusky oranges, coopery reds, fluffy white, shimmering yellows. Oh, look at how the light plays, how it swirls in and around the tops of the buildings. That would look marvelous against the grey soot of the city. Perhaps, I'll actually commit it to canvas. I wonder if Mycroft would like it? _Quennel thought about the rough sketch he would draw when he got home, feeling the rough texture of the paper under his fingertips and the smell of pencil lead in his nose.

He smiled brightly thinking of it and adjusted his glasses.

Two blocks from his flat, he noticed the sleek grey Aston Martin keeping pace with him. Q smiled, quirking an eyebrow and turned to the amused agent in the car. "Well, how long have you been following me?"

"Since you left that restaurant," James said. "You'd make a terrible agent."

"Well, we all know that my promising career as a spy went down the drain when I laid down that breadcrumb trail for you," Q shot back.

James's smirked. "Would you like a lift?"

"Why Mr. Bond, I'm not that type of boy," Q said, batting his eyelashes outrageously. Silence dominated Q's statement. Confused, he looked at James only to be greeted by a tomato colored agent. "Something I said?"

"Something you did. Now get in the car," James growled and practically reached out to grab Q by the hips.

Q smiled brightly and got into the car, colors and sketches pushed out of his mind.

"You haven't told me your real name," James said quietly as Q's head rested on James' shoulder. His hair was a mess, his clothes were hopelessly rumpled, and his glasses sat on Q's face askew.

"You haven't asked me," came Q's response. Q's heart sped up despite himself. Q's unofficial measurement of any potential relationship came in threes. Step one was asking Q his real name and the response it elicited. Step two was asking about Q's job. Step three was asking about his family. Q knew it was a strange measurement of any relationship but if no one could get past his name then it wasn't a relationship worth pursuing. He also knew that with James Bond all measurements were likely thrown out the window.

"What's wrong?" James asked, looking down at Q.

_Of course he'd notice. He's a 00 agent after all, _Q thought a little wildly.

"Nothing," Q said and made to turn to his side.

"Please don't do that," James said, putting his hand on Q's shoulder.

"I'm not doing anything," Q said trying to calm his breathing.

"Don't lie," James said and brushed his lips against the shell of Q's ear. Q shivered, goosebumps lined his arms.

"There's nothing you can tell me that would make me turn away from you," James said softly.

_I wish that were true._

The first time Henriette Holmes met any of Quennel's lovers was during his first year at university, when she had surprised her youngest with a visit.

It was a disaster.

Jonathan had left in a blinding white fury, throwing colorful clothing into various beat-up suitcases that only those who considered themselves bohemian would ever think about owning. He ranted through his entire exit.

"And what kind of name is Quennel, anyway?" Jonathan shouted, slamming the door hard enough to knock pictures off the wall.

Quennel leaned against the door frame, his head tipped forward, defeated. His arms were around himself trying to hold himself together as Jonathan's harsh words rang disjointed in his ears.

"He was never good enough for you anyway, ma biche," his mother said from the top of the stairs. She was wearing a steel grey pants suit, heels that added three inches to her already impressive height, and a fitted black blouse with a low-scooped neck. Her dark hair was currently bobbed which only accentuated the sharpness of her cheekbones. Her eyes, the same eyes that Sherlock inherited, bored straight into Quennel's soul.

Quennel knew his mother was very beautiful. But he also knew that his mother was a terrifying woman. There was nothing to cut the cold of her eyes.

He turned casting his sloe eyes at her, staring hard, anger bubbling up inside his chest. Quennel's paper pale face was streaked with salty tears and his fingernails were biting half-moons into his palm, his entire body rigid with hate. "Don't you have somewhere to be, Mummy?" Quennel finally bit out.

Henriette merely nodded her head, her hair briefly obscuring her eyes and floated back to the guest room that Quennel had given her.

Quennel listened to the sharp tap tap tap of her heels against the hardwood floor before the door shut behind her.

"Mycroft? What are you doing here? I thought you hated leg work," Quennel said, ignoring the stares of his staff.

"Brother mine, do you have a moment to spare?" Mycroft asked politely, fiddling with his waistcoat buttons. _Odd, _Quennel thought, _he never does that unless he's really nervous._

Quennel nodded and handed the reins of his current operation to Angela, his second in command. He steered Mycroft into his austere office. Quennel shivered, not because he was cold, but his office offered no warm comfort. While the one glass wall offered the illusion of openness, the three remaining stone walls were curved down and almost suffocated men taller than average. The lack of windows certainly didn't help the claustrophobic feeling, nor did the plain unpainted stone of the room. While he understood the necessity of having to relocate and secure Headquarters after Silva, not seeing sunlight after twelve, fifteen hours a day was maddening and often played with the minds of lesser men.

"What's wrong, Mycroft?" Quennel said after he firmly closed the door and activated the device that offered them complete and utter security. _Well, at least as much security when dealing with the eldest Holmes brother, _Quennel thought wryly. He knew most of Mycroft's tricks and knew his eldest wasn't above planting listening devices in his office.

"Mummy wants to meet your agent," Mycroft said not mincing words, a stricken look briefly crossing his face.

Quennel's jaw dropped. Mycroft was _always _effusive but to have their mother _want _to meet any of their significant others just shattered his mind.

"Oh, god," Quennel groaned, dropping into his black high-backed chair.

"Indeed," Mycroft said, helping himself to the hidden whiskey in his brother's desk.

"Pour me a double," Quennel grumbled as he took off his glasses and rubbed his dark green eyes.

"She actually wants to meet _all_ of our significant others," Mycroft said, despair edging into his voice.

"Oh, this just keeps getting better," Quennel muttered, reaching for his migraine medication.

"You have no idea," Mycroft said before taking a deep breath, "Mummy wants us to visit for a week...next week to be exact."

"WHAT?!" Quennel screeched and stood up, upsetting his chair. "YOU CAN'T BE SERIOUS."

"Oh, indeed, I am, brother mine. Indeed I am and she's not taking no for an answer," his brother said and righted Quennel's chair.

"Like I had any thought of trying to say no to her," Quennel said while waving away his staff who witnessed his shocked dismay. "Oh, god. What are we going to do?"

"What we Holmes Brothers always do, carry on," Mycroft said, dejectedly. He raised his half-full tumbler and said, "To our mother."

"To our mother," Quennel echoed and swiftly downed his drink.

The second time Henriette met one of his lovers, Sherlock was staying with him. His troubled middle brother escaped from Mycroft's chosen rehab and he was hiding, unsuccessfully at Quennel's flat. He and Anthony, his current lover, finished dragging Sherlock's unresponsive frame when Henriette knocked loudly at Quennel's door.

_Even when knocking, Mummy knows how to intimidate a person,_ Quennel thought and shot Sherlock a look. Sherlock's eyes widened in terror as the brothers began to shake.

"I'll get it," Anthony said falsely bright. Quennel knew it was an excuse to get away from Sherlock's cutting observations, his wild mood swings, and his unwashed smell.

"No wait!" both brothers said in unison as Anthony fled the room. Quennel desperately tried to reach his lover before he opened the door, but it was too late. Sherlock and Quennel looked at each other as they heard the polite murmurs of Anthony answering Henriette's questions. An intense silence followed afterwards before an angry outburst sounded. The door slammed shut as Sherlock pulled his baby brother into his arms, knowing that he had lost another lover to their mother's harsh words.

Their mother's sharp trend brought them out of their shared misery as she stepped into the room.

"Sherlock, I thought better of you. Get your things. You're going back to rehab," Henriette said as a greeting. She pulled out a mirror and lightly touched her hair before freshening her lipstick.

"Quennel, I know you know better. Smarten up," was all she said, not looking at her sons.

"Yes, Mummy," Sherlock and Quennel said together, defeated.

A soft knock came at Q's door.

"Enter," Q said, his head still in his hands.

"What was that all about?" James asked, worry crossing his face as he took in Q's posture.

"My mother wants to meet you," he answered, running a hand through his dark hair mussing it more. "I should clarify, Mummy wants to meet _all_ of our significant others and that means you, John and Anthea."

"I've yet to meet your brothers…officially," James said dryly and sat on his desk.

"We can arrange that," Q said, waving his hand. "Besides, Mycroft hasn't given you his terrifying 'break-his-heart-and-I'll-make-sure-no-one-ever-sees-your-body-again' speech. Never mind what Sherlock will say to you," he said this more to his desk rather than to James.

"That man who just left?" James said incredulous.

Q nodded and still directing his gaze at his desk.

"He doesn't look terrifying," James muttered, positioning himself to watch Mycroft's figure walk away.

Q barked out a laughed. "Oh, god, James. You have no idea the kind of power Mycroft Holmes has. None at all."

"More than M?" James asked, unbelieving.

Q remained silent, finally looking up. His eyes held an oddly playful glint that made James shiver.

"Remind me never to cross you or your brothers," James muttered. "Well, come on then. Start prepping me."

When Quennel got home later that night - _Morning? _- he found Sherlock curled up on the sofa with his Belstaff coat and shiny black shoes still on. Quennel sighed loudly and went about puttering around his flat before sitting down next to his brother.

"Well? Did you and John have a domestic?" Quennel said while soothing Sherlock's own messy hair back.

"Hmmm? Oh, no. He went to work," Sherlock said distractedly. He unconsciously arched into his head little brother's hand, making him more cat-like than Sherlock realized. "What are we doing about Mother?"

"What can we do about her?" Quennel said, biting his lip. "It's Mother and she'll demand our attention. Excuses won't work and pushing it back will just make us more anxious."

Sherlock muttered in agreement.

"Surely, you've started prepping John?" Quennel said.

"Prepping John?"

Quennel raised a very Holmesian eyebrow. "Surely, you're joking."

"Surely, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Sherlock! Have you even _told_ John about this forced meeting?" Sherlock reddened at the question. "Oh, my god. Sherlock! Don't you remember all those disastrous times when Mother met my significant others?" Sherlock blinked, answering Quennel's questions. "Oh, right. Deleted. How could I forget?"

"Oh, god. She's going to eviscerate John, isn't she?" Sherlock said, the truth finally dawning on him. Quennel could only nod.

"Text Mycroft, have him bring Anthea here tonight. When John is finished working, bring him here. I'll ask James to come over and hopefully, we'll get a plan of defense."

Sherlock nodded and pulled out his mobile.

The last of Henriette's disastrous meetings with Quennel's lovers was shortly before Sherlock revealed himself to be alive to John. Both of his brothers were there to bear witness the end to Quennel and Celinenne's relationship. Celinnene was French - or at least claimed to be French - worldly, and three years younger than Quennel. They met a few months before this incident and Quennel thought that he was head over heels in love with her.

His heart skipped a beat when he saw her in the cafe, sitting quietly, and reading Joyce. Her long red hair was piled haphazardly on top of her head and when she looked up, her icy blue eyes saw straight into Quennel's heart. He had to have her right then and there. After many months of quietly dating her, Celinnene had finally consented to moving into his tiny flat.

Two days after that Sherlock came back from his quest of dismantling Moriarty's web followed closely by Mycroft.

Quennel silently cursed himself as his brothers bustled about his tiny flat, preparing Sherlock to reintroduce himself to the world. He sympathized with his brother's plight and did everything he could to help the detective and his blogger through the three years they were apart. He could see how much the separation hurt Sherlock and loathe as he was to admit it, maybe he was wrong about sentiment.

He stared at Sherlock for fifteen minutes straight without saying a word. Finally, when Sherlock had enough, he whirled on his baby brother and demanded why he was staring.

Quennel took a deep breath.

He told Sherlock that John married and widowed in less than ten months. Her name was Mary and she was pregnant with his twins. Oh, the crushing shock on Sherlock's face. It hurt Quennel and Mycroft badly to see Sherlock this way. He was gone for three years and had no idea of the turmoil John Watson went through when Sherlock "died."

It took time but both of them were grudgingly let back into John's life; Mycroft took longer than Quennel. John blamed Mycroft's participation in Sherlock's fall and hit him seven ways from Sunday when Mycroft came to apologize. John only stopped when Quennel ordered him to stop.

But Mary's death hit him especially hard.

"He's lost so much, Sherlock," Quennel said sadly.

Before Quennel could go further into detail, the door of his flat opened and in walked in Celinnene with Henriette. Celinnene said not one word to anyone, opting to slap Quennel soundly across the face and walking back out the door. Quennel took a shaky breath while he rubbed his face.

"Sherlock, how good of you to return to the living," Henriette said as if her middle son hadn't fought hard and lost much. "Mycroft, trying a new diet are we? Quennel that girl was beastly."

"Mother," Quennel said, his voice steely and his shoulders tight. Quennel could hear the dismayed gasps from his brothers as the tension in the room ratcheted up several levels. Henriette was willfully oblivious to it all.

"Yes, ma biche?" Henriette asked, taking a long drag of her cigarette and blowing out the pale blue smoke. She wore a black and white dress with intricate stitched flowers along the hemline. Henriette wore it very well. Quennel wanted to rip the dress to shards.

"Get the fuck out of my flat," Quennel said and stood up straight. He smoothed his blue cardigan, straightened his glasses, and gave her a disdainful sniff. "Until you can learn to be a _decent _human being, you are no longer allowed to just barge into my flat as if you owned the place. Neither me or my brothers owe you a damn thing. You have done a fine enough job raising us, but honestly, you have the empathy of a slug. I would expect more warmth from a snowman and more softness from a sword!"

Henriette's eyes narrowed and just as she was about to respond, Quennel roared at her to get out. Mycroft and Sherlock stiffened at Quennel's anger and then stood up behind their baby brother in silent support. Henriette visibly paled at the sight of her three son standing up to her. She quickly drew herself to her full height and turned walking away.

She did not bother to turn around.

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I'm conflicted about Henriette but in the next chapter, we'll see a little insight into her...hopefully.

Thank you for reading.


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